


Timshel

by schweinsty



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, trigger warning, trigger warning: self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweinsty/pseuds/schweinsty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ninon leaves, Fleur feels trapped and deals with it in unhealthy ways; it takes a dangerous mistake to show her she's not alone.</p><p>Note: This work is about a character getting to the point of starting to heal from self-harm, and contains some mentions of suicidal ideation and incredibly low self-esteem. Please tread carefully if you are triggered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timshel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt (http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=848390#cmt848390) on the kink meme. 
> 
> IMPORTANT: This is probably the most trigger-full thing I've ever written. Massive warnings for self-harm, some suicidal ideation, massive self-esteem issues, and depression. Writing this helped me, but I know I've been triggered by things far less detailed than this, so please, please tread carefully if you can get triggered by any of these things.

It is harder than she remembered, now Ninon is gone. She has no books to read no letters to write no place to go where she's not watched and pointed at and gossiped not too quietly about, and it is all very difficult. Her mind feels stifled and her heart feels hurt, and there is nowhere she can go to heal.

"I'll give you time," her father said when he relented and told Jacques the butcher there would be no marriage (yet). "In time you may grow to like him, or some other man. I am not an ogre that I would see you miserable, my girl."

And now there's time and time and time and time and nothing to keep her mind from idling through it. 

She cooks with her mother and mends their clothing and cleans her youngest brother when he soils himself and sometimes helps her father at his work, and her mother praises her and says she'll make some man oh but a fine wife some day, and some mornings she wakes up and washes her face and wishes she could fit into her pitcher and drown.

Her mind never stops working, now. She'll walk out at night and see Venus and remember what the drawings of Jupiter looked like in some of Ninon's books; she'll pass the bookbinder's house and wish she were one of the rich ladies who go in sometimes to buy the adventure novels Ninon scorned. Always the ache in her head and the longing in her stomach to do more be more be gone to somewhere she can use the brain God gave her just as much as He gave men.

But no chance ever comes to think beyond the day to day, and Ninon is gone.

 

Everything goes better for some time between her and her parents, or at least she thinks so. They do not ask her to make decisions on marriage soon, and she does not tell them what the thought of marrying a man (let alone one twice her age and thrice her size) makes her feel.

Then one day her father comes to her room and watches her read one of the few pamphlets Ninon gave her. 

"She ruined you," her father says. "Ruined you for life as a woman."

 

It is not long after that, the first time she hurts herself.

It is not much; just a long scratch on her leg with her fingernail that heals in a few days. It doesn't even bleed.

Every night before she goes to bed, she rubs her fingers over the welt and relishes the feelings that she finally doesn't feel for those few, stolen moments.

 

"What happened here?" Constance asks one time when they're fitting her for a new dress.

She curses herself. The cuts on her thighs stay hidden underneath her smalls, but the marks under her right breast she should never have made. She just wanted-- wanted--

"My stays," she answers. "They weren't sewn right, and some of the bone scratched me. It's nothing."

Constance accepts her explanation, albeit with a troubled frown, and they finish the fitting with no further comments. 

Afterwards, she breathes a sigh of pent-up nerves and tries to tell herself she doesn't feel disappointment mingled with the relief.

 

Scratching doesn't satisfy for long. 

Ruined you for life as a woman, her father said. 

Ruined on the inside with her brain unfit for dull stagnation; she must ruin all the outside so she matches just as well.

Perhaps it is the bit of Ninon in her who helps her steal the knife from the kitchen and hide it under her floorboards, who helps her drag the first exploratory slash across her hip. It's slight and shallow, but as it aches when she sits up and crouches, it's quite enough to start with. It satisfies the knots in her stomach and makes the gnawing in her head go quiet for a time. The second time it bleeds a bit, and she digs her fingers in on either side of the cut and pulls so little droplets dribble this way and that and pool in the center.

Ruined for life as a woman and no way to be anything else.

The next week she makes four more cuts, each deeper than the last.

 

Jacques the butcher comes to visit her father on pretexts for a time, but when she gives him no encouragement he falters and, eventually, stops trying altogether.

Then old Michel the widower (who does not need to work to live) stops by one morning on his way to mass.

"It is a pleasure to greet you, Mademoiselle." He bends over her hand and kisses it. His breath blows hot and rancid on her knuckles, and she shuts herself in her room when he leaves and runs to her knife. Her fingers tremble in her haste, and she yanks her dress up and her smalls down so quickly that they almost rip.

She cuts deeper then than she ever has before, and lies back on her bed, breast heaving, when she finishes. She gasps for air and feels light and boundless. The handle of the knife is slick and hot with sweat in her palm, but she holds it close and trembles.

She wraps her thigh with a strip of cloth when she is done and thinks it longing of her arms. If long sleeves were back in vogue, she thinks--and banishes the thought as soon as she has it. For now.

 

"I don't know what we'll do with you," her mother says with a sigh one day when she finds her staring out the window with aching, tired eyes. "We must find someone to settle you with eventually."

 

She tires of her thighs in August and ventures upwards, to her stomach. No one sees or says a thing, and she will not need a new dress for at least a year.

Plenty of time to heal before her next fitting.

 

Bonacieux leaves in September.

"He had to relocate to better serve the Cardinal in his new position," Constance explains whenever anyone asks. "He thought it best that I stay here to mind other business matters until he returns."

She listens politely to Constance's vague, repeated explanations and hurts from jealousy so sharp she barely finds it in herself to breathe every time the gossip starts again. She grits her teeth and doesn't hurt herself too much, because she has to be careful--but Constance has everything and she has nothing, and Ninon is gone and she's not fit for anything, and nothing she can do will ever change that. 

She visits Constance one morning, ferrying a basket her mother borrowed. She wears her wine-colored dress with long sleeves which ruffle at the wrist with lace so delicate she fears to handle forks and knives. It's slightly out of fashion but it suits her coloring, and her mother smiles at her when she puts it on. 

"Mother said to thank you very much," she's telling Constance by the sink when she feels someone loom behind her.

The hand on her wrist is as light as it is unexpected, but it startles her so that by the time she recognizes d'Artagnan's sleeve beside her, he's got a quite firm hold on her and tugged the lacy ruffle down.

"What's this?" He asks her. There's anger in his eyes, and his mouth jerks. His fingers twitch as if they ache to grab the sword strapped at his side.

She yanks her hand back like a shot. Holy virgin, she thinks

She musters a smile to her face somehow. "Kitchen accident."

Mother of God, watch over me and give me strength

"Thank you," she says, turning to back to Constance, "Again. I'll visit next Monday, if that's all right."

Help me banish fear from my heart, and intercede in my behalf--

Stupid, she realizes later; praying for help in lying? She never should have let herself get caught in the first place. What could have possessed her to work on her wrist? 

She disrobes as soon as she's safe in the privacy of her room and cuts so deep into her thigh she sees white, soft bits that curl around the knife beneath the fleshy red. 

 

October brings chills, rains, and Luc the candlemaker's apprentice. 

"I've given you time," her father says, "And I'll continue to do so. But sooner or later you'll have to make a choice. You may mull over your decision for longer, if you like, but while you live under my roof, you will at least make yourself acquainted with your options."

Luc the candlemaker's apprentice is a pleasant enough lad to keep in conversation with; he's handsome, too, and all the other women of her acquaintance flirt with him and titter and gossip behind his back.

She tries to think of him with favor after he leaves. In bed, once all the rooms go dark that night, she inches her hand under her nightdress and tries to picture his face and the way he smiled when she said something clever.

She falls asleep dry and unsatisfied and dreams that Ninon visits her and reads her Plato's lectures over breakfast.

 

The next morning, she waits until everyone leaves the house on errands or business to hike up her skirts and seek solace.

She squeezes shut her eyes and thinks of Luc, and when she opens her eyes again she's slashed a dark, deep line from the top of her thigh to the bend in her knee that saturates her smalls with blood in a matter of seconds.

 

She binds her wound as best she can, but even as she wraps it tight she knows it will not be enough. She's cut too deep this time, too long, and even if it stops bleeding soon (and she doesn't see that it will; her new bandage damps through in a minute or two), she knows it won't be long before it starts to fester and infect the rest of her body.

She sits down on her bed; wills the dizziness to pass. It doesn't, and she wonders--briefly--if it would be so wrong, so awful if she let it fester, grow hot and slick with pus, let it rot and didn't let her parents know until too late for even amputation to heal her.

For one fleeting moment she longs for death as she's wanted nothing before.

Then she snaps back to sanity, and horror bubbles in her breast. Ninon would not want her to die like that. Ninon would want her to live.

She wants to live.

Fleur makes her decision and leaves her parents' house hobbling from the pain.

 

D'Artagnan's horse is tied up in front of the Bonacieux house when Fleur arrives, and she dithers on the doorstep for a full two minutes trying to make her mind up to knock. 

She barely managed to restrain herself from running on her way over, even with the pain in her leg, but now she's here she doesn't know what she'll say--how she'll explain it--and she feels, for the first time, horror at the mass of scars and scabbing cuts that riddle her thighs and hips and stomach. And d'Artagnan's being here intimidates her more than she could have imagined. She doesn't want him to know: doesn't want him to see. What if he thinks her insane and they lock her up? What if she is insane? It's hardly rational or right, what she's done, and what her mother and father and the priest will have to say about it when they're told--

"Oh," Constance says with a welcoming smile as the door jerks open in front of her. "I thought I heard someone. Fleur, come in! I hoped you'd stop by soon."

Fleur feels faint and light and very much like laughing, though now that the time's come she feels so anxious, too, she thinks she might be sick right here on Bonacieux's steps, and she wraps her hand around the door frame for support.

"Fleur?" Constance's eyes widen, and the sudden change of tenor of her voice must alert Monsieur d'Artagnan something is amiss, for he appears suddenly behind her in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," Fleur mutters. Her face floods with blood and shame, and she looks down at her shoes and sees two drops of blood on the stone beside them. "Constance, I'm so sorry. I didn't know where else to go, and I couldn't tell Mother or Father, and I didn't know what to-"

The hands that draw her inside and shut the door softly behind her cut her babbling off mid-sentence. Constance and d'Artagnan lead her to the sitting room and set her lightly in a chair, and Fleur realizes with some shock that sometime since knocking she's started to cry. The tears stream down her face quietly, and, though she finds it hard to take a too-deep breath, she doesn't feel the need to moan or wail.

Fleur can't remember the last time she cried. Not since before--before Ninon; months--years.

Fleur squirms in her chair as Constance goes to the kitchen to get her some water. As Constance comes back in, d'Artagnan pulls her to one side and murmurs something in her ear. Fleur can't overhear, but she knows he means to leave when he bows his head to her and starts heading for the door.

Fleur's heart seizes, and she knots the fabric of her skirt in sweat-slick fingers. The thought of burdening Constance alone with this makes her throat hurt with guilt, and somewhere in the back of her mind she realizes Constance will have no choice but to call for a surgeon, and maybe d'Artagnan--maybe d'Artagnan will be able to smooth things over a little bit, somehow, or to--it's just that he's so strong, and she knows Constance relies on him, and though Fleur doesn't want him to know, not really, she wants--she doesn't know what she wants, honestly, but she thinks he might be able to help them as far as finding someone to tend her wound, at least.

"No," she blurts out as he puts on his hat. "Don't go, please. I-"

Fleur looks back at Constance, and the look in the woman's eyes gives her strength. 

"I cut myself. My leg. I think--I think it's bad."

They're both moving before Fleur finishes. Constance gets there first. She kneels in front of Fleur, d'Artangan following, and at Fleur's nod draws Fleur's skirt and petticoat up an inch or two above her knees.

Fleur doesn't look, but she knows by Constance's hiss that the cloth she used to bind it round (three times round her thigh) must be sodden.

D'Artagnan curses under his breath and stands. Before Fleur can even breathe, he leans over, settles one arm under her shoulders and tucks the other under her knees, and lifts her up as if she doesn't weigh a thing.

Fleur finds that she's so tired she tucks her head against his chest and shuts her eyes.

She's out before he reaches the bedroom.

 

Fleur wakes slowly. 

She's conscious, first, of something warm wrapped around her chest and something warmer and soft at her back. Her right hand as well, feels hot and sticky, as does her ankle. The rest of her is rather cool, and she feels light; so light she feels she might be flying by mistake. It dizzies her.

Next, she recognizes talk. Voices near and far that drift around her like bumblebees in the sun: one light and concerned at her side, two in front--one flat and snappy and one melodious and rich, and one that rumbles softly like a bear behind her every long once in a while. There's a moaning hum, too, that interrupts the talking now and then and makes the voices go soft and sad and quiet. It's all so confusing, and her throat's parched with thirst.

Finally, Fleur feels pain--sharp, stabbing pain that pulls like a sharp lance of fire against her thigh. Fleur flinches against it, but the warmth around her chest and ankle grips her body and holds her still to bear it.

Fleur jerks awake with a start and a gasp.

She's dressed in Constance's old robe and covered, mostly, with one of Constance's old sheets. Both sheet and robe are rucked up to the top of her right leg, her thigh laid bare. D'Artagnan's perched on the end of the bed, eyes studiously pointed up at the ceiling. He has both hands clamped around her right ankle and doesn't even look like he's straining to keep it still. Constance is in a chair at her right; she holds Fleur's hand in both of hers, and her cheek has a dull red swipe on it, as if she tried to brush some hair away with bloody hands. Aramis is leaning over her on her left; his face is ashen and his mouth is grim, and he's leaning on her left leg so she can't move it either. In his hands he's holding needle and thread coated in blood, and he's drawing it through--

Fleur gags, and breathes, and bites her lip until it bleeds. 

"It's all right, little sister," rumbles the voice in her ear, and Fleur looks at her stomach to see a familiar pair of brown hands clasped together in front of her belly; Porthos' arms clamp hers down efficiently, and he's sitting against the headboard and wall so she can more comfortably rest against him. 

Fleur's vision blurs, and she bows her head so the others can't see and clenches her fingers tight until her fingernails dig into her palms.

"I'm sorry," she mutters under her breath. 

If anyone hears her, they don't give any sign, save maybe for Porthos. He leans his chin on her shoulder (and his beard scratches her neck and distracts her for a moment at the unfamiliar touch) and murmurs soft and soothing nothings in her ear.

 

When Aramis finishes, he pours more wine on the wound (and it hurts so a sob tears itself out of her throat), then pours some in a glass and gives it to her with a reassuring smile and gentle eyes that do far more to comfort than his upturned lips.

"I'll come by, of course, to look in on it until it's healed," he tells Fleur. "We--thought you might prefer my humble skills to a surgeon, Mademoiselle."

Fleur murmurs her thanks and wants to sleep now more than anything. Aramis must see it, for he bows his head and jerks his head at the door.

D'Artagnan follows him out, still avoiding looking at her bare leg (for which Fleur is pathetically grateful, though not for any sense of modesty). Before he leaves, he catches eyes with her.

"Hey," he says before he leaves, however. "It's going to be all right.

He twitches his face into an impish little fleeting grin that warms Fleur's heart and bows as well as he leaves.

Porthos is next, squirming out from behind her so gracefully Fleur barely has time to be embarrassed. He helps Constance settle some pillows beneath her head and lowers her down to them gently. 

"Get some sleep." He presses a hand to her forehead (Fleur's hair sticks to it with sweat, and she flushes to think he must have been sweating too, with her practically lying on top of him like a blanket). "Athos is standing guard outside to make sure none of the maids bother you. Rest."

Fleur lets her eyes drift shut, and when she cracks her now-heavy eyelids again, Porthos is gone and only Constance remains, still holding Fleur's hand in hers.

"I'm sorry," Fleur says, and means it. Her voice cracks, and she thinks if she doesn't stop now she'll start bawling.

"Oh, Fleur." Constance releases her hand to cover Fleur with a blanket, and Fleur closes her eyes again. She is so tired; she thinks she could sleep for days.

"Stay with me until I fall asleep?" She asks when Constance doesn't take her hand again immediately. Fleur thinks she should feel even more shame than she already does, at this weakness, but she doesn't think she could stand being alone again. Not right now.

Constance settles back into her chair with a rustle of fine fabric and rests her shoulder against the headboard.

"You're my friend," she answers. "Of course I'll stay."

 

The next time Fleur wakes up, there's no light coming in through the gaps in the curtains, and she's alone.

The door to her bedroom stands ajar, and she hears voices from the kitchen drifting through the crack. Fleur raises herself up on the bed in an attempt to hear them better. They're muffled, still, but she can make out bits and words and tone of voice. 

There's Athos, whose voice she recognizes more from its melancholy tone than from any close acquaintance. His words are mostly indistinct, but she thinks he's saying something about Ninon.

Aramis speaks then, after Athos. 

"Cases like this," Fleur hears almost indistinctly. "Soldiers...massacre..."

More murmurs, then, for a time.

And then:

"Of course she did!" Clear as a bell and fraught with frustration, and even if Fleur didn't recognize Constance's voice, she'd know that anger anywhere. "Anytime you feel miserable you spar or duel or drink yourselves silly--but who did she have to turn a blade against except herself? Don't you dare, you lout."

In the silence that follows, Fleur feels so overwhelmingly grateful for her friend she finds her eyes leaking hot tears again. She settles back down on her pillows and shuts them, and soon sleep calls her back to rest and heal.

 

The next time Fleur wakes up, the sun is shining again and d'Artagnan's settled in a chair at her side, polishing a musket. 

She watches him for a moment before she gestures. She owes him so much for bringing Aramis rather than a doctor; him and Constance both. Her reputation might still suffer from gossip, but at least she doesn't think anyone will lock her up like a madwoman, at least, and thanks cannot express her gratitude for that.

She clears her throat a bit, finally--then realizes maybe that was not a good idea as the parched tickle in her throat devolves into a full-blown coughing fit that makes her eyes water. 

There's a commotion to her right, and after a moment someone helps her sit up and presses the cool rim of a cup of water to her lips.

When the coughing passes, Fleur wipes watery eyes to see Constance and d'Artagnan hovering on either side of her--Constance kneeling on the bed, d'Artagnan crouching by her shoulder. They both look terrified. The door opens before she can say anything, and Aramis walks in with a reassuring smile on his face that looks, at least, a bit more genuine than the one he gave her earlier.

"And how is my patient?" 

Aramis doesn't quite shove d'Artagnan out of the way, but it's close, and d'Artagnan takes the hint; he mutters something about seeing 'what the others are up to' and scurries from the room, blushing, as Aramis moves the sheet covering Fleur's leg to the side.

He seems pleased at what he sees, though Fleur sees only a hideous wound bound together with broad black thread like sleeves on a badly-made jerkin. Aramis raises the sheet just a bit further (far enough to show some scars in white and pink and angry red and scabbing cuts twisting together in a writhing, ugly mess that covers almost every inch of skin from upper leg to hip to the sides of her stomach [and even farther up, in several cases]); just far enough to make his point. He tugs it back down after a moment; tucks the sheet in around her leg as if covering a holy relic. 

His face, when he looks back at her and locks her gaze with his, is not a judging one, but it does not absolve her either.

"This can't continue."

Fleur keeps eye contact long enough to nod, but she lowers her gaze to her hands and takes a deep breath that doesn't tremble.

The hand that covers hers is large and calloused but gentle, and Constance slips her arm around Fleur's back and rubs.

"It's all right," Constance says. She rests her head against Fleur's as if she's the one drawing strength. She's good at that sort of thing. 

“I'd like to stop,” Fleur says. She can't look at them; can't tear her eyes from her hands or stop her fingers tracing a seam in the sheet beneath her, over and over in a loop, while Aramis continues to hold her hands in his. It's improper, of course, but it's comforting, and Fleur doesn't think slashing oneself to ribbons is covered under etiquette. “I just- it just-”

“It's okay,” Aramis says. “We'll help.”

Constance pulls her into a hug. “We'll all help.”

“All right?”

Fleur nods, and Aramis brings up her hand and kisses her knuckles.

 

First, they talk (at length, and to what Fleur might have called excess if they weren't doing all of it for her). 

When did this start? Aramis asks.

Constance and Aramis alone stay in the room. Fleur appreciates this, although she still feels exposed, knowing that the others, sitting outside in the kitchen, know. It is so many people for so private a thing. At least it's better than her mother and father or Luc the candlemaker's apprentice.

"After Ninon," is the answer that comes out, eventually. "I didn't know what to- what else to do."

"But picking up a knife isn't the first thing you thought of," Constance says at her side. "Why - when did you start? You seemed well after--after your father relented about your marriage."

Fleur doesn't really have an answer to that. It's hard to explain. Viewed in retrospect, all her fears and aggravations seem small and silly in retrospect: she's hardly the first woman who'll be married to someone she doesn't love, and she had ample time to wait for it, and if housewifery isn't the most erudite of occupations, it's not unworthy work, and it's nothing less than she expected.

“I don't know,” she says. She shrugs. “I just couldn't—I can't—I felt trapped.”

Constance understands a bit, she thinks, but even so, this is not a situation in which Constance would ever find herself. She's so strong.

The interview goes on and on until Fleur actually starts nodding off. Aramis is all concern throughout, and when she tires he helps her lay back, pours water in a glass, and won't let her sleep until she's drunk it.

“You lost a lot of blood,” is all he says (with darkness, suddenly, glittering in his eyes that she doesn't quite understand). He takes his leave with a promise that he'll check on her that evening.

“I told your parents you came to see me and felt suddenly ill. I said you were welcome to stay until you were well.” Constance tucks the sheet up around Fleur's waist and brings up as well the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. “Rest. I'll be nearby if you need me.”

Constance stops at the doorway and turns back. “They're serious, you know. Any help you need, they'll manage it. And me too.”

The door shuts behind her with a click, and Fleur nods off to the ever-present murmur of voices.

 

Fleur sleeps badly and rouses up damp with sweat; she's thinking of the knife under the floorboards before she's fully conscious.

Waking is a hard disappointment. 

She looks about her, but there's nothing in the room that could be used for harm. Aramis' scissors are missing from the table where he set them when he finished stitching her, as is the little knife Constance keeps in the bedside table just in case. Even the vase that used to sit on the little chest at the foot of the bed is gone, and Fleur realizes they've already started to safeguard her. The thought of Constance looking through the bedroom and putting everything away as if Fleur were a babe is humiliating, but it's no more than she deserves. She's acted like a child throwing a fit--told herself she was a ruined woman and gone and made things even worse. No man would want her, now; if she ever has a wedding night, her groom will lift her skirts and run off begging for annulment. 

She's ruined everything.

Before she thinks too hard about it, Fleur snakes her hand under the covers and digs her fingers into the top of the bloody slit on her thigh. 

She stops when she smells blood. 

Realization of what she's done hits as soon as she brings her hands off and wipes them on the sheets. Stupid, stupid girl; here everyone is trying to help, and how does she repay them? By undoing their work and dirtying her bedclothes. Foolish, stupid, worthless girl.

Fleur fists her hands in the blanket and cries.

 

Aramis doesn't visit that evening, and Fleur spends the night tossing and turning in the hot, close room. Constance is all kindness and solicitation, though she insists that Fleur rises and walks to the kitchen for supper.

Constance helps her hobble their herself. 

“I think they've gotten tied up in some business at the palace,” Constance says over her soup. Her voice is strong and sensible as usual, but there's a tightness around her eyes that Fleur can't quite place until Constance continues. “There was some—shooting, I think, on the grounds. I'm sure they're fine.”

Fleur says she's sure they're fine as well, and tries to make conversation until Constance retires. She doesn't mention the way Constance stares at the front door as they pass it on their way back to the bedrooms, or how Constance starts at every sound as she helps Fleur settle in again.

Constance raises an eyebrow at the jagged mess of the very top stitch on Fleur's wound, but Fleur won't meet her eyes, and nothing's said.

 

When Fleur hobbles into the kitchen (all by herself) the next morning, all the men are eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Athos has his left arm in a sling and all the skin scraped off his knuckles; Porthos sports a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek and a cut on his forehead which bears a few very familiar-looking stitches; Aramis has one black eye and bandages that disappear beneath his shirt; d'Artagnan, looking as if he aimed to make the other three feel better about themselves, sports a sling, a black eye and a swollen nose, and the tell-tale bulk of bandages under his shirtsleeve on the arm he still has use of.

“Morning,” Porthos says with a mischievous grin, and Fleur realizes she's stopped in the doorway to gape.

“Good morning,” Fleur manages. She takes the plate Constance offers her and sits down next to d'Artangan, who looks like he is trying to smile.

“And how's my patient?” Aramis leans over and looks her up and down, looking quite satisfied with himself.

Constance snorts. “Better than you lot. Idiots. Bar fight! A bar fight! Of all things! And here I thought you might be dead or wounded in the service of the king, and you lot went and got yourselves into a brawl?”

Fleur tries (and fails) to disguise her snort as a cough, and Athos—Athos!--shoots her a particularly grumpy glare. 

“To be fair,” d'Artagnan says around a mouthful of something that looks quite disgusting half-chewed up, “It was a part of a—well, we were—there was--”

“Captain Treville agreed it was a justifiable extension of our duties as Musketeers,” Aramis cuts in smoothly, “And has kindly given us several days off to recuperate. It really was a complicated situation, Madame.”

Constance snorts again and clangs the lid on the pot of soup so loudly that d'Artagnan winces (then winces again as the movement aggravates his ribs, which seem also to be suffering some sort of wound). Porthos reaches over and pats him gravely on the back, though Fleur sees his lips quirk. 

“So,” Aramis continues in the uncomfortable silence which follows, “ We have several days to see to your health, Mademoiselle, and I've come up with some ideas.”

Fleur's mouth goes dry, and she folds her hands together in her lap. She looks up again when someone touches her shoulder, and regards with some surprise Athos, looking less murderous than she's ever seen him, resting his uninjured hand on her.

“It's all right,” he says under his breath, and Fleur feels her stomach warm until she takes a closer look at the hand on her shoulder.

“You do know that fingernail's going to fall off?” 

Aramis groans and drops his head onto his hands as Constance starts again.

 

Aramis checks her wound after breakfast.

“I'm sorry,” Fleur says before she shows him. “I woke up and didn't even realize what I was doing, I just couldn't—it's hard.”

Aramis nods and says the wound should still heal fine. “But it won't if you aggravate it further.”

He sits her down on the bed and pulls a chair up beside her. “I read about some soldiers who hurt themselves, after—after they went through some difficult battles. It's not unheard of. You can stop, Fleur; you have us to help, and there's nothing wrong in asking for it when you need.”

He heads back to the kitchen after that, telling her to meet them in a half hour or so in the sitting room to start work.

 

'Work', apparently, consists of driving oneself to physical exhaustion. 

“Don't worry,” Porthos tells her when she punches his hand as hard as she can. “You won't hurt me.”

“Brawling is an excellent release for anger,” Aramis says from his seat on the chaise. Athos, looking rather darker than usual, sits next to him with a bottle of wine clutched firmly in his hand. “Better than other forms of dealing with hardship. We've been teaching Constance, and once he's a little better, d'Artagnan's going to teach you how to hold a sword.”

Fleur wonders what Ninon would say to this; then thinks, at once, 'She'd understand' and 'It doesn't matter any more, does it?'.

Porthos doesn't teach her much, this first time: just how to hold her fist and how to throw her weight behind a basic punch. By the time they're done, however, Fleur's swaying, and Aramis says they can do more at a later date. 

Constance takes her to the kitchen, then, and Fleur sits in a chair and chops some carrots for the stew. She doesn't miss the way Constance follows her hands and makes sure the knife is in plain view all the while, but Fleur can't bring herself to care. She's hungry for what feels like the first time in months, and she finally feels like she might be able to manage this thing.

“I've been thinking of hiring someone to help me keep the accounts,” Constance says as she cooks. “Do you think your mother might spare you two or three days a week?”

Fleur cries again, then, but Constance smiles at her and tells her it's all right.

 

After lunch, Athos corners her and produces a book from behind his back. It's a collection of plays by an English writer she does not know.

“I have several,” he tells her, and presses the book into her hands. Fleur takes it, stupidly, and doesn't realize he means to lend it to her until he backs up a step. “Any time you feel like reading, just tell Constance, and I'll leave one for you here.”

 

Fleur offers to help Constance with the housework that afternoon, but Constance tells her to rest. Fleur retreats to the bedroom she's in and settles in quite happily. The book's a draw, of course, but the morning's exertions haven't exactly been gentle, and she relishes the chance to lie down and rest her leg.

The wound itches and distracts her while she reads; though she is drawn into the plays, Fleur finds her fingers clutching the binding harder than usual in her hunger to scratch at it.

Stupid girl, she thinks despite herself. Stupid, worthless, ruined woman.

It's evening when the light grows dim enough that she can't see the words, and Fleur sets it on the bedside table and creeps out of bed.

Constance is closing the shutters in the sitting room and snuffing out the candles. The boys—the musketeers—her _friends_ —are there as well, stretched out on chairs and chaise and slumbering deeply to a one.

Constance smiles at her when she walks in.

“Good afternoon?” She asks. 

Fleur nods, but checks herself. “I wanted to—to hurt myself again. Most of it.”

Constance steps over and grabs her hand. “Did you?”

Fleur shakes her head and feels something loosen in her chest when Constance sighs in obvious relief.

“Aramis told me to congratulate you,” Constance tells her in a whisper, pressing their foreheads together. “On your first full day of recovery.”

Fleur smiles, but it's wan. “It's not—I don't know if I can manage never to do it again. I'll try, but--”

“But your problems will never leave you.” Constance looks out over the sitting room at the injured, snoring men sprawled all over it. “I know. But neither will we.”

She squeezes both Fleur's hands in hers. “And if you fall, we'll help you pick yourself back up again.”

And Fleur feels hope uncurl in her chest.


End file.
